Sherlock the Grownup
by gopadfoot
Summary: Yes, this is a piece about Mummy's baffling comment. A character study in Mummy, her relationship with her two sons, and how Sherlock came to be considered the grownup. New chapter: Mycroft's POV!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This piece is my view on Mummy's "grown-up" comment, knew that has baffled many. I have alluded to this in my story "Coming Around," but this is an expanded, complete version. I would love to hear your opinions, especially different takes on that comment and why it was said.

* * *

When Sherlock was three years old, he caused his first explosion.

It was only a combination of several common household products, including vinegar, bleach, ammonia and baking soda, all mixed up inside a glass bottle. But the sound of it brought the entire household running, to find shards of glass all over the kitchen, and a cowering, tear-stained Sherlock under the kitchen table.

Mummy had been reading a book on positive parenting, and wasn't this just the right opportunity to implement it's wise advice? So, instead of tearing into poor Sherlock, who was obviously regretting his little experiment, she frantically cast around for something positive to say.

She finally found it. "Aren't you quite the little scientist!" she beamed. "How clever of you, to figure out how to make a chemical explosion! Next time, however, you'll be doing it in your own lab, and under supervision. We don't want our little scientist to get hurt, do we?"

What started as a parenting technique quickly turned into a coping mechanism. When Sherlock started dragging in animal corpses, she told herself firmly that she was so _glad_ that he showed such interest in science. Then she pasted a large smile on her face and requested he bring it into the garage. She never dared step in there afterwards.

When five-year-old Sherlock went drifting out onto the lake on a log, wearing his pirate gear and yelling "Ahoy, mateys!", she breathed in and out for several minutes, then turned to her husband and said, "What imagination! What initiative! He's such a mature boy, our Sherlock, isn't he?"

Things became more difficult when her little boy dropped out of Uni, and turned to illegal substances for relief. She cried, then, but didn't let herself fall apart. "He does know what he's doing, doesn't he? He's an expert chemist; surely he knows how to keep himself safe from overdosing, or long-term damage?" she half-stated, half-asked, her ever-patient husband.

When her little boy did overdose, she refused to believe it was anything more than an unfortunate miscalculation. Letting herself believe anything else would force her to face the harsher side of reality that she had for so long avoided. From then on, Mycroft began to follow his brother around, keeping a close eye on him and his activities.

Sherlock had showed an interest in crime-solving from a very young age. No one could be prouder than Mummy was when her little boy became a consulting detective, the only one in the world. He had actually invented the job title! Then again, she had always know he was extraordinary. Her little Sherlock, all grown up!

There was someone who was determined to mar her happiness, however. Mycroft kept calling her, tatting on his little brother. She would be enjoying an evening of line-dancing with William, and the phone call would come. "Sherlock's using again."

"Look, I know it's not ideal," she told her older son frankly. "However, we both know that Sherlock is unique. He sometimes needs that extra bit of stimulation to keep him calm."

"He's an addict," Mycroft told her bluntly, one time.

"Now, Mikey, don't be like that. He is a grownup, with a very important job. Why, just last week his name was in the papers, having solved another crime! You know, I understand you resent that he's getting acclaim, but that's no excuse to malign your brother."

After that, she very rarely heard from Mycroft about this topic. That had to be because Sherlock had gotten over that silly phase. She was glad that her son was doing so well.

He rarely visited, and almost never called. She worried, sometimes. "He must be so busy with his cases," she mused to William, who, as always, listened in silence, which she took for acquiescence. "Well, I certainly won't interfere with his career. He did promise to call more last time we saw him. Perhaps, when he gets a chance to catch his breath, he will remember his old Mummy?" She giggled, and then sighed. It was hard, sometimes, to have your little ones all grown up.

She frowned at the thought. Mycroft was still acting immature at times. He had a job of some importance, although she wasn't aware of his exact job description. He had a desk job in some government office, pushing papers. He had formed connections, and had some influence in several departments, as she found out when he assisted her with various issues, ranging from property taxes to health insurance. Nevertheless, his job wasn't glamorous or exciting, like Sherlock's, and he was obviously resentful.

She insisted that he accompany them to the theater when they were back in England. He had his usual excuses about being busy with work of vital importance, which she didn't buy. Come on, he wasn't the Prime Minister or anything. He grumbled about Sherlock never being asked to do anything. Well, she couldn't exactly drag Sherlock away from a case, when he had but several hours to solve it before the criminal struck again, could she?

Mycroft had just snorted about Sherlock shooting the walls in boredom, and lying about the case. Mummy wasn't pleased. Last week Sherlock had saved Parliament from being blown to smithereens, and had his name on the headlines! Of course Mycroft was jealous. What had he done in that time, filled out some forms about income taxes? She hoped her older son would stop acting so childish and learn to accept his brother.

She still worried about Sherlock,and all the danger he was putting himself into, although he was capable of taking care of himself. One day, her worry turned out to be justified. Her little boy had been shot.

This time, she was an unstoppable force. Sherlock and Mycroft _would_ come for Christmas, no excuses accepted. The consulting detective shouldn't be working on cases now, anyhow, he was still not fully recovered. And wouldn't it be nice if Sherlock's friend, the nice doctor, came along with his wife? She was happy that, despite Sherlock's intense schedule, he had manged to make some nice friends. Unlike Mycroft, who was still a loner.

The meal was wonderful, and it was great to be surrounded by family. If only Mycroft would complain a little less, and grow up for once. He had even brought along his laptop, and insisted that the security of the free world depended on that! That boy would do anything to get out of family gatherings. Luckily, Sherlock was much more amenable.

Something went wrong, however. She never did get all the details, but it turned out that Sherlock had drugged his family. She felt shaken, betrayed. "He must have had a very good reason," she told William tearfully. "Mycroft did say it was to save lives. I'm sure he wouldn't have done it if there was another way. And he made sure to have his friend be here to take care of us; he really is a grown-up."

It was no wonder that it turned out to be Mycroft which had betrayed his family, after all. He had lied to them about Eurus, broken their hearts and let them mourn. He might indeed have been trying for kindness, but that idiot boy never did understand the concept of family, did he?

There was only one thing left to do, one person she could turn to for help. She would ask Sherlock what to do. After all, he had always been the grown-up.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft watched Mummy turn to Sherlock, and heard her tearful supplication. He should have been surprised by the words she uttered, yet he found he somehow wasn't. Somewhere deep inside him, he had known the truth all along. Mycroft would never be good enough.

He had tried so hard. In fact, he had never stopped trying. Mummy used to be his sun, moon, and stars, and nothing could make him gladden than an approving nod from her.

If Mummy said he needed to make friends, he tried his best to just that, no matter how ridiculous that sounded. If Mummy said that he needed to smile more often, he would practice stretching his lips in the mirror, contortions until it resembled what other people called a "smile." He wasn't quite sure why it was necessary, but he would do anything to please his Mummy. (People sometimes told him his smile didn't look natural, but he didn't understand what that meant. He had made sure to align his facial muscles in the correct way.)

When Mummy told him he was going to be a big brother, and he would need to protect his younger sibling, he dutifully nodded. He wasn't quite sure what a baby needed protecting from. All those diminutive humans did was cry, eat, and soil their diapers. Perhaps he needed to be on alert for kidnappers. But who would go to the trouble of stealing something something worth so little and yet so difficult to maintain?

When Mycroft grew up a bit, he realized something terrible. Mummy wasn't the smartest person alive. In fact, she probably wasn't very smart at all! The smartest person alive, or at least from all the people he personally knew, _was himself_! The thought disturbed him so much that he locked himself into his room for a whole afternoon, and blooded.

Yet Mummy was still Mummy, and when she smiled at him and petted his head, something inside of him would do a little floppy dance, and his insides felt all warm. He supposed that feeling was what others called happiness. It was a mystery to him why he felt that way.

Mycroft knew that ordinary people experienced that emotion for the most ludicrous of reasons. He had thought his intellect would make him stay above that. Yet he found himself yearning for the occasional compliments, the nods of approval, and the very rare understanding his mother could give him.

He worked very hard to recieve those gifts. He agreed with his mother's opinions, even when he found them ridiculous. He dutifully attended every social occasion his mother dragged him to, and kept his practiced smile on his face. He studied, got good grades, didn't get into any trouble at school, or at home, and watched over Sherlock, and then Eurus, too.

He did get some approval, and gestures of affections. He also got plenty of criticism. Why didn't he ever bring friends over? All boys his age had friends. Perhaps he wasn't trying hard enough. Why didn't he play more sports? Nonsense, it wasn't dull, it was a healthy activity and brought more opportunities for socialization. Why didn't he try losing a little weight? Extra pounds brought all kinds of diseases.

And why didn't he keep a better eye on his siblings? Sherlock was constantly causing mischief, and Eurus was getting up to no good.

Mycroft would quietly accept the criticism, and promise to do better. He would then recieve a nod and a smile, and would find himself feeling warm once again.

Until he would see Mummy interact with Sherlock and Eurus. He thought it made sense that Mummy would favor Eurus. She was Mummy's only daughter, and hadn't he read about how women usually favored their female progeny?

But Sherlock was an enigma. He was a living nightmare, in Mycroft's opinion. He destroyed everything in his path, and never showed an ounce of regret. When he desired something, he would tantrum for hours, until his voice turned hoarse and his face was redder than the sunburn Mycroft once got.

And Mummy, she loved him. Totally and completely. She would constantly pet him, croon at him, soothe him, and give in to almost every whim of his. It seemed that the more challenging his behavior became, the more love and attention she lavished on him.

Mycroft experimented once. He threw a tantrum worthy of his stupid, curly-headed brother, when Mummy refused to buy him another set of encyclopedias. He was sent to his room without dinner.

Mycroft couldn't deny that the sour feeling in his gut when he saw Mummy lavish ingredients her love on Sherlock was jealousy. He understood that somehow, Sherlock had charmed his way into Mummy's heart without ever even trying. Yet he still protected Sherlock, because that was his duty. And also, perhaps, because Sherlock had also somehow wiggled his way into Mycroft's very narrow, almost non-existent heart.

He didn't protect him from kidnappers, who for some reason never bothered with his little brother. Yet Sherlock was attacked in other ways, by kids who despised him for being different, and adults who despised him for telling the truth. Mainly, Sherlock needed protection from his own stupidity. He never understood how to keep himself out of trouble.

Mycroft never dreamed his life would change so drastically. One day, Redbeard was gone, and then Eurus, and then Sherlock, although only mentally. Even when Sherlock recovered, he was changed. The only thing that didn't change was Mummy's adoration for Sherlock, although her smothering of him grew by leaps and bounds.

Curiously, Sherlock didn't respond to it well. In fact, the more Mummy fussed over him, the more withdrawn he became. Mycroft watched them sadly, not a trace of jealousy left. Sherlock needed much more than love now; he needed someone to understand him. It was up to Mycroft to be that person.

Mycroft became a mentor of sorts to his brother. They had a very close relationship, but in an unconventional way. Mycroft would assist Sherlock in sorting his thoughts, and teach him how to rein in his impulses. Sherlock would act in his typically bratty way, but he knew that Mycroft was always there for him if he needed help.

They grew apart eventually, but that was another story. Both of them kept their distance from their parents, from Dad, who was always there yet never present, and Mummy, who loved them but didn't understand them. Ironically, it was Sherlock, Mummy's favorite, who never initiated contact, and avoided her as much as possible.

Mycroft felt it was his duty to watch out for his parents. He called them sometimes, and tolerated their inane chatter. He always fulfilled their every request, and gave them constant updates on Sherlock (most of which were highly inaccurate, but they didn't have to know that.)

He wasn't expecting any gratitude, which was good, since he didn't get any. Whenever they found out about Sherlock getting himself into some kind of trouble, Mummy would scold Mycroft for not keeping a better eye.

It got to a point where Mycroft grew tired of it all. Mummy's overwhelming concern for Sherlock, her sickening admiration of her younger son, and her constant nagging at Mycroft. Mycroft would respond with scorn and sarcasm whenever Mummy went on a tangent about "her boy," and how much she loved him, and how Mycroft should really appreciate him more. As if she expected Mycroft to start singing his praises.

Deep inside, he was still the little boy he once was. He wanted his Mummy to sing his praises, and fret about him, and tell him he was them most treasured thing in her life. He still tried to please her, no matter how much he suffered by doing that (that awful Les Mis experience still made him shudder). Yet realistically, he knew that he didn't hold a candle to Sherlock's bright light.

Yes, Mummy, he thought when his mother had left. I know I am an idiot boy. I certainly know I am limited. I even know that Sherlock will always be perfect in your eyes, no matter what he does. But I tried, Mummy, I always tried so hard. Doesn't that count for anything?


End file.
